Naughty Nikki: A Billionaire Romance

Indicate the sexual activities you consent to participate in (check all that apply).

Oh. My. God.

I’m actually doing this.

I stare at the questionnaire on my cell phone, thinking there’s no way in hell I can do this!

Then I quickly remind myself… There’s no way in hell I can avoid doing this!

I have the insinuated you owe us money and we’ll break kneecaps to ensure we’re paid evidence burned into my brain to back this up, in the form of a typed note that more blatantly declares: “You have until Christmas Day, 9 pm.”

That’s it. That’s all. No exceptions and no negotiations. No phone number for me to beg and plead for additional time. ‘Cause five days isn’t going to cut it for me. Not when it comes to the amount of cash I’m required to hand over to save said kneecaps. And they’re not just mine…

A part of me wants to scream. A part of me wants to strangle my older sister Ria for… Well. For a lot of things, in addition to this hellacious debt she’s incurred, for which I’ve dutifully assumed responsibility.

And then there’s this teeny, tiny, absurdly naughty part of me that forces me to shift my mental attention from the horror note that is a ticking time bomb, back to the questionnaire that’s staring me in the face.

This is no arbitrary sex questionnaire. This is the crucial final phase of the interview process for the Kinky Kris Kringle Christmas Auction. A highly exclusive, private, invitation-only affair I accidentally stumbled upon while inadvertently ripping open a “Personal and Confidential” envelope on my boss’s desk.

I’d been too wrapped up in thoughts of Ria’s tearful confession of getting in over her head with a loan shark—for her boyfriend’s sake, god-fucking-damn it—to concentrate on the mail I was sorting through for Jameson Richards, my incredibly gorgeous, billionaire boss.

Honestly, it was the first time in the four years I’d worked for The Richards Corp. that anything other than him had distracted me. In this particular instance, the derailment had come from Ria’s confession and my subsequent, admittedly idiotic assertion that I’d take care of everything for her, just as Mom always did for her sister. Even after my aunt’s car “mysteriously” blew up in the deserted parking lot of her diner job.

Jesus.

I really wasn’t into history repeating itself. Or for it to be more destructive, given Aunt Lindy had, thankfully, been inside the restaurant during the explosion and no one else had been in the near vicinity, since it was after-hours, and she was one of the last two employees to lock up and leave.

As soon as Ria had told me she was in trouble, I’d thought of how rocked to the core Aunt Lindy—and my mom—had been that night. And for sometime thereafter.

I’d been sixteen that year and the terror had stuck with me as well. Thus, I’d immediately taken matters into my own hands with Ria, hoping like hell to nip this all in the bud. I had the better-paying job, after all. With a retirement plan and medical insurance and… Whatever.

None of that matters, because my savings account is only padded so much. And Ria’s ex owes infinitely more. Meaning “the bud” has fully bloomed. And I’m fully fucked.

Especially considering the ex has been exonerated by way of Ria taking over the financial burden. Which now falls on the shoulders of yours truly, because I’ve stepped in.

I recognize the sucker I am.

But currently… There’s a bit more to this story.

I tap the pad of my index finger against my chin as I peruse the list of what I will and what I won’t do for cold, hard cash.

The incentive here is two-fold. The first being that the less inhibited I am (or, at least appear to be), the higher the reserve will be set on me and the more money I’ll earn. The more open I am to anything and everything which someone purchasing me for the evening might be into, the greater my chances are that the bid will stretch into the hefty six-figure range.

For one night.

I can clear Ria and myself with this one depraved evening. I might even have a few bucks left over to spend at a day spa, thoroughly cleansing my body, mind and spirit.

The contradictory portion of this endeavor is that I just might get an erotic thrill out of dirtying up my body, mind and spirit.

From what I’ve gleaned from a deep dive on the Internet—which, considering the risqué content, I’m guessing led me to a shadowy corner of the dark web—this particular holiday auction is only for the top one percent. The filthy rich who like decadent indulgences the Average Joe can’t afford.

This is not the same as a tawdry sex club or a sticky-surfaced strip joint, or even on-par with hiring a call girl. This is a very formal, extravagant venue, entailing a tedious selection process on the front end—via the extensive physical exams and assessments I’ve been through—as well as on the back end, where my meticulous vetting will lead to *hopefully* a bidding war amongst the wealthy and affluent gentlemen seeking the kind of lascivious fulfillment that is apparently not offered by their high-society girlfriends… Or their wives.

While I don’t condone anyone stepping out on their spouse, I can’t get caught up in that mortal coil. I don’t know for sure that will be the situation with whomever “wins” me, nor can I allow myself to find any sort of ethical issue with what I’m doing—or what they’re doing. Mine and my sister’s lives hang in the balance.

And… Of all the ways to save us, I have to say, this is the classiest.

Okay, that’s downright weird. And wrong on so many levels.

Yet also absolutely true.

So… The index finger that is drumming out a contemplative rhythm on my chin now taps every box on the exhaustive list on the tablet.

Every single fucking box.

I’m leaving nothing off the table here. I must collect every dollar I can. If that means subjecting myself to bondage, spanking, blowjobs and multiple partners (oh, Christ, multiple partners!), so be it.

I hit the Submit button, finding all the irony in that action.